The Overseer Read online

  “Where are they?” Devin demanded again, jamming the muzzle of his handgun into Scarza’s eye socket. “Where are they, you sick—?”

  “I’m already dead.” Scarza laughed, a malicious grin crossing his already paling face. “And you’ll never find out what happened to those nubile playthings.”

  “What?” Hannah demanded, rushing up next to Devin, grabbing at Scarza. “Where are they?”

  Devin stood, backing away. He’d been through this. And this sicko was going to let the whole thing die with him. Hopped out of his mind on drugs he bought with the suffering and misery of others. Devin watched the intensity of Hannah’s actions, begging Scarza to tell her where the girls were, but there was no point—the trail and Scarza’s body went cold at the same time.

  Then the sirens started.

  The police were on their way. The neighbors had heard the shots, and the police would be there in seconds. “Hannah?” he said gently.

  “Where?” she asked the dead body, the grin gone from the man’s face.

  “Hannah?” he said again, a hand on her shoulder, “we have to go.”

  She stood, backing away, seething with anger.

  “Hannah,” he repeated, “we have to go.”

  She looked at him, turned, and followed him out the front door.

  John Temple’s eyes opened, and he saw Vincent Sobel standing in front of him.

  “Hello, sleepyhead.” Vince smirked.

  “Vince,” John said, moving to sit up, realizing that Trista was still resting her sleeping head on his chest, “how did you…?”

  Vince sat on the coffee table, eyes meeting John’s. Trista started to stir, waking. “You know I don’t support this,” he said.

  John glanced down at Trista, her waking face surprised by the presence of Vince. “Vince?” she said.

  “I don’t approve of the two of you, either,” he said, rubbing his hands together, “but I’m here about Senator Warren Foster and your disobedience.”

  John looked around and saw three other men in the room, all wearing suits, though none as expensive as Vince’s. “How did you find us?” John asked.

  Vince nearly rolled his eyes. “We’re all members of the Firstborn here. It was just a matter of time until one of us saw where you were. And there are more of us that are opposed to what you are doing than those that support you. A lot more.”

  John looked down, working the heels of his hands into his forehead. “What do you want?”

  “We’re here to make sure you don’t try to pull anything having to do with the Senator Foster press conference tomorrow.” He reached into his jacket and removed something, setting it on the table—a silenced pistol. “And we really do intend to keep you here. No matter what.”

  “Even if that means letting a United States senator die?” John asked, looking up.

  Vince didn’t reply.

  Chapter 17

  HANNAH MUST HAVE nodded off. Her eyes opened, feeling the sting of dawn light creeping in. A few seconds of recollection: She was in the car, passenger seat. They had left the house in a hurry—Scarza dead on the floor. They hadn’t talked at all, not a word between them as they drove in circles. Hannah’s mind had been a furious tumult of thoughts, fears, and conjecture. Plans made themselves and unraveled at their seams as she had tried desperately to will the girls out of captivity. And then, at some point, she had succumbed to the exhaustion that worry and anxiety brought.

  Devin was outside, leaning against the hood of the car, a silhouette against the horizon and the keen slashing rays of the dawn sun lifting over it. His arms were crossed, face turned slightly down—caught up in a kind of stillness that was inhuman. Hannah hunched her shoulders, stretching, then reached for the car door.

  The car was parked at a higher elevation than most of the rest of the city, giving a good view of the city below. The kind of place people always seemed to name Lookout Point or something ridiculous and cliché. Tan dirt and short dry plants were all that was anywhere near them.

  “Hello,” Hannah said to Devin, walking toward his place at the front of the car. A tip of the face as a subtle nod was all she got in return. She took a place near him, leaning against the hood. Hannah crossed her arms, feeling cold, forgetting that the desert could get so freezing cold at night. “Where do we start looking for the girls?” she asked after a moment.

  Devin moved for the first time in a truly noticeable way, stepping away from the car. “We don’t,” he said with a sigh.

  Hannah blinked, then stepped toward him. “What do you mean?”

  He turned from her, walking toward the edge of the bluff, once again a silhouette against the golden bloom of the morning sun. “It’s too late,” he said, shaking his head as he put his hands in his pockets.

  “Devin,” she chided gently, “you can’t be serious. They’re just girls—barely into their teens. We can’t give up on them.”

  “Clay Goldstein might have been right,” he mused, eyes transfixed on the city below. “Maybe it is time to give up on the girls. They’re not here, and we only have a few hours before they’re supposed to attempt the assassination.”

  “But,” Hannah started, sounding more desperate and weak than she believed she was capable of anymore, “the girls—”

  “Are gone,” Devin interrupted, turning to her, face stern. “They’re gone. Sold. Out of our reach. At least for now.” He shook his head morosely. “Maybe later. Maybe sometime in the future we can resume the search. But right now there’s nothing that we can do to—”

  “No,” she sneered, backing away from him. “I can’t believe you’d just let this happen. I can’t believe that you would let them…” She winced, trying not to think about the possibilities.

  “We just don’t have the time.” Devin balked. “Don’t you see? We have to choose—and the assassination is about to happen. There just isn’t time right now.”

  “So.” Hannah took another step back, appalled by what she was hearing. “You’re just going to give up on them? Forever?”

  “No.” Devin looked away. “Just until we make sure the senator is safe.”

  “The window is closing,” Hannah argued, crossing her arms, “and if we wait, they’re going to be gone. Forever. Or might as well be.” She wasn’t used to arguing. She hadn’t done it much, and she had never liked what little she had done. But she found herself emphatic. Impassioned. Angry.

  “We can’t just let these thugs kill a United States senator,” Devin said, voice raised, tone angry.

  “These girls have mothers. Fathers. We can’t let this happen!” Hannah argued back, matching volume, posture pitched forward, tone shrill and desperate to be understood.

  Devin threw his arms out to the sides, posture equally emphatic. “They’re going to kill a senator! We’ve wasted enough time trying to save these girls!” he shouted, mad.

  “Wasting time?” Hannah demanded, face red.

  “They’re gone, Hannah!” he yelled, jabbing a finger at the dirt. “It’s too late. Why can’t you see that? It was always too late!”

  “But we have to keep trying!”

  “Later,” he shouted, balling his fists, “maybe. But not now. Not with so much at stake!”

  “Like what?” she demanded. “A senator?”

  Devin pointed a finger accusingly. “You’re being an irrational child!”

  She took a step back, furious. “I am not being irrational, and I am not a child!”

  “You’re emotionally involved,” he growled. “You see yourself in the people you’re trying to help—young, vulnerable girls!”

  “And you’re not?” she fumed, “Trying to save an authority figure who just happens to have the same skin color as you?”

  They stopped.

  Devin’s expression dropped.

  Hannah trembled, suddenly realizing what she was saying. “Devin, I’m so…”

  Devin sighed. “We’re always pitted against each other— forced to choose between two goods.”


  “Devin,” she stammered, “I’m sorry for the things I said. I’m sorry I lost my temper.” She pushed a drop of blurry mist from the edge of her eye. “I’m so sorry.”

  “That’s the problem when people work together,” Devin said with a kind of resignation. “They become more caught up in what’s happening between them than what they set out to do in the first place.”

  She turned her head toward the sun, the sky starting to turn blue now in a fully formed morning. “We’re going to have to do these things alone, aren’t we?”

  “No,” Devin said, putting a hand on her shoulder, “because I’m not going to let you do this alone.”

  “But the senator—”

  “If there’s one thing I’ve learned living a life in the pursuit of moral and spiritual wholeness,” Devin said gently, “it’s that if you try to do it all by yourself, you won’t last a minute. Working together has its problems, but it beats working alone.” He took out his phone. “Besides,” he smiled, “there’s already someone who can deal with this.”

  Trista Brightling sat in the hotel suite. Their intruders had kept a close eye on them, restricting their movements to the point of paralysis. Vincent Sobel had tried to make small talk with her and John, but neither were willing to engage with him. The other three “guards” had taken turns sleeping and going to the restroom, occasionally opening one of their laptops to check e-mail.

  Trista sat on the couch—the same place she had sat and slept for hours now. She was watching Vince, standing at the window, looking out at the city, when John’s cell phone went off in one of Vince’s jacket pockets. He had collected their phones, making it that much more difficult for them to contact anyone in the outside world. Vince took the phone from his jacket, checking the caller. He frowned and hit a button, silencing it, before putting it back in his pocket.

  She looked at John, slouched in his place, looking beaten and sad. “Are you OK?” she asked, certain she knew the answer. He seemed to think for a moment, then looked her in the eye.

  “I am,” he said with the hint of a smile.

  Trista frowned, thrown. “Why?”

  He looked at her hand, taking it in his. “If everything has to go wrong,” he said with a fully blossoming smile, “then I’m just glad that I can be here with you.”

  Trista felt something warm in her chest, a feeling that urged her to return John’s smile. “Me too,” she said without thinking.

  The cell phone rang again in Vince’s pocket. He checked it again, silenced it, returning it to its place.

  Trista looked at John again, trying to think of something to say.

  “I love you,” he blurted softly, without any kind of pretense.

  She felt the urge to say something back, to reply with something that might come out disastrously similar. Yet she somehow managed to stay silent.

  “I always have,” he continued, “since I first met you in Barcelona—it feels like it was years ago.”

  Trista laughed quietly, almost to herself. “John—it was years ago. Two, at least.”

  “And I’ve never stopped,” he whispered, eyes sincere and intense. “I ran halfway across the world, but I never stopped loving you.”

  “John, I—”

  “I told you I’d die for you,” he said with all seriousness. “If it comes to that, I promise I will.”

  Her threshold of comfort diminished in an instant. “What are you saying, John?”

  “Angelo,” he said, unblinking. “He said that the Thresher wanted you dead. That’s what he said to me in the parking garage yesterday, before he disappeared.”

  “And you believe him?” Trista asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said, looking like he might cry, “but you have to promise me that you won’t do anything to put yourself in harm’s way. Do you understand?”

  She stared at him, transfixed, trying to find some crack in his resolve, some indication on his face that he didn’t believe what he was saying—not really, at least. Did he?

  The phone in Vince’s pocket rang again, and John stopped, like a dog that caught the scent of something. “It’s Devin,” he said, suddenly realizing. He raised his voice and said it again. “It’s Devin.”

  Vince looked at him intensely, then reached for the phone.

  Devin heaved an internal sigh as the phone finally connected to someone.

  “Where are you?” the voice on the other end asked.

  Devin frowned. “John?”

  “Where are you?” the voice asked again.

  “Vincent Sobel,” Devin said, recognizing the voice, suddenly concerned. “What are you doing at this number?”

  “I caught up with them,” Vince replied, his tone casual.

  “You’re keeping them locked down,” Devin stated, “so they won’t interfere with the assassination.”

  Vince didn’t speak for a moment. “We should talk about this,” he suggested, “over coffee. Where are you?”

  “I want to talk to John,” Devin said, edging toward ordering.

  “Just a second, then.”

  There were a few seconds of rustling as the phone was passed from one person to the next.

  “Hello?” John asked.

  “John? Are you OK?”

  “I’m fine,” John replied, hurrying to add something else, but he was cut off by more rustling and the sounds of protest as the phone exchanged hands again, apparently against John’s will.

  “There,” Vince said. “Now why don’t you come and meet me? Put down your guns and let this Foster thing go. OK?”

  Devin turned to Hannah, standing with him there on the dusty bluff. There was something in her face—she understood what was going on.

  “You’ve made me the only person who can deal with the assassination,” Devin stated, realizing the fact himself for the first time.

  “Yes,” Vince agreed, almost as if he’d realized it for the first time himself, “and I promise you that I’ll do everything in my power to make sure—”

  Devin hung up on Vince midsentence and put his phone into his pocket. He turned to Hannah.

  “Do I need to do this alone?” she asked with an unmistakable air of courage.

  He didn’t speak for a moment, trying to find a way—some chance that they, mere mortals, could know beyond a doubt what they should do. By saving the senator, he could well be dooming Hannah’s mission—and Hannah herself. He groped for some perfect answer to all the questions that flitted through his mind and pricked at his conscience. Discernment. He prayed for discernment. Just having visions wasn’t enough.

  Then, looking into her resolute face, he found his answer.

  “I don’t want you to do anything until I can help,” he ordered, stepping toward her. “I told John I wouldn’t let you act alone, and I intend to keep my word. Don’t make contact, don’t try to rescue, and don’t confront. And whatever you do—don’t get caught. Do you understand?”

  She shook her head. “What do you want me to do, Devin?”

  “You’re right,” he said, feeling an abstraction of the future. “If you don’t go right now—right this instant—and find out where these girls are, then we’ll never find them.”

  Hope seemed to flood her face, filling her features with life. “You’re saying I’ll find them?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head, somehow confused by his own words, “but I do know that the only chance they have is for you to find them now. And when you do, call me. If I can come, I will be there.”

  “If you’re done,” she acknowledged. “If you’re still alive.”

  It always sobered Devin after the fact that he could have died in a particular situation. But it was the kind of thing he pushed off until after, then dismissed as being a part of the long lost past. “Yes.” He nodded. “If I’m still alive.”

  Hannah was silent for a moment, the breeze tousling a hair. Stepping forward, she hugged him.

  “Dear God,” she muttered in Devin’s ear,
standing on her toes to reach it, “protect my brother and friend, Devin. Give me stillness. Give me peace. But give him safety.”

  Devin leaned down toward Hannah’s ear. “Lord, watch over Hannah. Protect her and keep her. Forgive me for not being able to be with her, but keep her safe!”

  And then, without an amen, he pressed the keys to the car into her palm, stepped away from her, and walked toward the road.

  Chapter 18

  SENATOR WARREN FOSTER stood on the balcony of his hotel room, looking out over the city. Las Vegas was made for the night, when it could be its own evening sky, filled with colored lights. But during the day the place seemed dirty, grungy, and run-down. Vegas had been torn down and rebuilt several times over, and now with the current economic woes, it looked as bad as ever. Empty parking lots, devoid of their nighttime visitors. The kind of uninhabited wasteland that most places had to wait until two in the morning to become.

  He was ready to leave. Not that Vegas wasn’t a charming place in its own right, but he was ready to sleep in his own bed.

  He was tired. The scandal and the accusations had been more than he was ready for, and the nature of the situation had caused more than its share of controversy. It was hard on his marriage, hard on his kids. It was all more than he wanted to talk about or deal with. And then there was the issue of security.

  As a senator, he didn’t have a Secret Service detail, not usually. Someone had made sure he had security, though. Private contractors who were supposed to keep him safe if something happened. Mostly he just found them a nuisance.

  He’d spent the last two days touring Las Vegas, “investigating” for human trafficking activity. It was important; he knew that. Prostitution was legal here, like it was in Amsterdam and parts of Germany. In Europe, legalization of prostitution always seemed to be justified by the notion that it would protect women, allowing them insurance and medical care, and bring revenue to the state. The result was government programs that weren’t being used by the women—many of whom were too embarrassed to go on the record to say they’d made a living that way for a short period of time. Most of them didn’t plan to live that kind of life any longer than they had to and weren’t about to do something that would let their friends and family know they had taken up that kind of vocation.